


That Night

by NairobiWonders



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Gen, mention of drug use, physical illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 01:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4121451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/pseuds/NairobiWonders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place on the night of the season 3 finale so there are some spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Night

She got the call that he'd been found. High. A tin in his pocket. Heroin.

Joan mumbled a thanks into the phone and disconnected. Suffocating heat enveloped her, a bitter metallic taste filled her mouth ... she ran blindly up the stairs. Her body purged itself of the fear, the sorrow, the anger; the bile cast out in spasms to prepare for his homecoming. 

When they delivered him to her, the broken husk of Sherlock placed before her, his eyes devoid of any glimmer of who he was, the sensation rose again. The sickening heat flushed her body and spun her senses. Joan was glad he really wasn't there to witness her shock, her utter despair at seeing him like this. A kaleidoscope of emotions formed and re-formed within her as she watched him shuffle past her. Physical revulsion overwhelmed her. She pushed it down. 

She was strong. She could handle anything. She would take care of this. She had stood with and held the hands of many an addict. She knew what to do.  
She could handle this...

But the phone call from his father sent her body once more to the brink and then pushed her over. Joan let herself give in to the weakening sickness until there was no more ... until she was as empty as he was.

 

A few small sips of warm water to help ease the dizziness. She would be fine. She had not eaten since Sherlock had gone missing. Ingestion might upset the balance, cause her to lose her footing on the tightrope she was walking and fall forever into the chasm. She stayed the course, ate nothing ... control was hers.

Joan made her way to the roof. She dreaded facing him again. 

Repulsed. Angry. Hurt. She knew this was not his fault. This was not about her or her feelings. The thought that she did not fit into the equation upset her further. 

The breeze on the roof helped. Cool air across her face displaced the heat of nausea. She gave Sherlock the news of his father's impending arrival. No reaction, nothing ... She was not sure he even knew she was there.

Joan stood behind the empty hull of him. What he was going through, would need to go through, what the future held for both of them or didn't hold, all made her want to run as far away as she could from him.

Why stay? This was not her battle. She could just walk away. He had. Last year, he ran away. Why shouldn't she?

He turned his head and looked at her; his watery eyes registering the beginnings of pain and regret.

Joan stood immobile and stared blankly back at him.

\------------------------------

Everything around him was on mute. No feelings intruded, not one thing demanded his attention. Individualities, the microcosms created and destroyed with each lying human breath, melted into one solid gooey presence that encircled him. He did not have to evaluate it or interact with it. It just was and he felt nothing. The outside world was gone and he was at peace. 

Sherlock was no more or so he told himself and in telling himself realized he was still there. He was beginning to seep back into his body ... dark feelings thick as oil oozed in from the crevices and cracks of his weak soul.

Sharp pangs of horror stabbed and serpentine regret slithered through his being at the realization of what he had done to himself and to her. He couldn't stop the rising tide of emotions. Sherlock was coming back into himself and the pain was unbearable.

He turned his head and looked at her. Why was she there? Why had she not runaway? He would never be whole again. He could be of no use to her. 

Sherlock wanted to tell her he cared for her too much to taint her life with his, that she should run away and save herself, live her life away from the shadows he brought to her ... But the words would not form in his mouth and the best he could do was croak out harsh words ... "Go away."

Joan stood immobile and stared blankly back at him. Exhaustion slumped across her back and threatened her with collapse. She could not deal with this tonight. She turned and walked across the roof, opening the door and quietly disappearing within. 

Sherlock turned his empty gaze back to the lights of the city, hoping they would hypnotize him back into a state of nonbeing. He slowly closed himself off from sight, from sound, from touch as troubled sleep overtook his body. 

 

He jolted up in surprise. A blanket was placed around his shoulders. The sound of a metal chair being scraped across the floor towards him followed. He turned to see her drop into the adjoining chair, her own blanket draped around her shoulders.

Joan fixed her gaze on him. She was too tired to fight and too emotionally compromised to talk. She reached over and adjusted his blanket across his shoulders and around his neck, sat back in her chair and stared off into the lights of the city on the horizon.

Sherlock watched her, waiting for the admonishments, the words of hurt and disappointment she would surely hurl in his direction. When none came, he cast his eyes back onto the cityscape and berated himself, hating himself all the more.

 

A hand at her covered shoulder woke her up. Sherlock stood next to her. Wrapping the blanket a little tighter around himself, he jerked his head and signaled in the direction of the door. Joan got up and walked with him back into their home.


End file.
